A Trio of Halloween Stories
by girl in the glen
Summary: Three stories set to the Halloween theme of mystery and, sometimes, horror.
1. Chapter 1: Unimaginable

A little boy with a black cape and top hat was chanting out a special message to some imaginary spirit, his words sliding out of his mouth with great emphasis; all the better to scare the willies out of his young audience. Two girls huddled together and, whether truly frightened or feigning such in order to heighten the enjoyment of this little show they looked the part of ghoulish delights.

Illya Kuryakin was observing the scene while his partner surveyed farther beyond into a stand of trees just north of their location. Someone had called for help; a very familiar someone who swore to do no harm to the UNCLE agents specifically requested, if they would only come and help.

"Do you think we can trust that this is not a trap of some sort?" Illya was skeptical, but then it was his job to be so. Napoleon Solo wanted to believe the best concerning this particular person, but he still insisted on a visual confirmation before starting the trek into the woods beyond.

"She sounded sincere enough.' Illya rolled his eyes, an easily predictable response.

"… and I am inclined to believe her."

"Are you ever not inclined to believe a damsel in distress? You would do to adopt some of my …"

"Pessimism?"

"I was going to say caution. You have none where women are concerned."

"And you are the least cautious person I know, Mister Kuryakin.' Napoleon smiled behind his veiled accusation of impulsiveness on the part of the Russian. Illya was right though, he did sometimes let the feminine mystique overcome his common sense.

"Fine, point taken. But this time… Wait, I think I see her and…" Illya took his binoculars and looked in the direction indicated by his friend.

"I see a woman, and she's not alone. Two men dressed in white… Are those hoods they're wearing?"

Napoleon squinted, as though to help him see better. The image didn't change. There was a woman between two men dressed in white, topped by hoods. They were each holding a sword and as the UNCLE agents watched in horror one of them raised his arms while grasping the sword and with one swift motion, took off her head.

"Was it her? Was that really Angelique?" Illya couldn't identify the woman; her head, while still on her shoulders, had been bowed. The color of her hair was right but there was no way to say with any certainty that the decapitated blonde was Angelique LeChien.

Napoleon was numb. He couldn't accept that his sometime lover, oft times nemesis, was the victim of what he had just witnessed. The sound of the children was in the background, innocence contrasted with the violence less than a thousand feet away.

"I have to know if it's her, I need to go and see for myself." Illya was still watching as Napoleon spoke. The hooded executioners seemed to know they were being watched; as if on cue they each removed their hoods. Illya's heart began to race at what he saw.

"Napoleon, look… look now!" Now what? Napoleon didn't need any more drama right now, so what was ILlya yelling about? He looked once more at the scene of this reprehensible violence and when he did…

"How? How is that possible? Illya…?"

But Illya was gone, leaving Napoleon alone to fend off the nightmare of watching himself execute Angelique.


	2. Chapter 2: Bejeweled and Bewildered

It was a most unusual display, in the trendiest shop among all the Village offerings. Greenwich Village had become a hub of hippy and avante gard shops, art galleries and mind bending substances, the latter of which mostly resided in back rooms.

One such establishment sold a line of cosmetics guaranteed to keep skin youthful and vibrant. Ironically and with the usual twist of 60's imagination, the display in the window was a skeleton bedecked in jewels with a banner that read: Nothing looks as good as beautiful skin.

A woman passing by hissed in disapproval at the strange image, her own sense of mortality suddenly challenged by the idea of being rich and beautiful until death overtook the body, leaving nothing but these jewels that now meant nothing. A strange sense of foreboding suddenly overwhelmed her and she ran screaming into the street and was met immediately by an oncoming city bus. Those who had witnessed the tragic event were certain that she acted only after staring for some time at the skeleton in the window.

As Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin viewed the window display that had apparently sent Vivian Chambers into the path of a bus, their senses were on full alert. Something about this skeleton evoked a grim and powerful response to those who took the time to view it. Another woman, after concentrating on the jewel encrusted bones had turned into a crowd of tourists and began beating at them with her purse. She had screamed out something to the effect of life having no meaning without true beauty, and all of them were bereft of that. Several of those assaulted swore she intended to kill someone.

"So, do you feel like assaulting me now?" Napoleon smiled at the question, debating how best to respond.

"Not now, but the other day in Morocco…" Illya snorted in derision. He had done everything just as they discussed.

"I hope you plan on getting over that Napoleon. The girl simply preferred blonds.' Napoleon's plan to seduce the satrapy's daughter had been reduced to introducing her to his blond friend with the alluring accent.

"We accomplished our mission. That is all that matters. Now back to this skeleton…"

At least two women have responded to this.. um, thing… violently and with intent to do bodily harm. The first one plowed into a bus and the second attacked a group of tourists." Illya was examining the object of their inquiry, trying to ascertain anything that might help identify the catalyst for those strange reactions. While the two men stood staring into the window, the door to the shop opened and a beautiful young woman stepped out, her feet clad in sandals and her dress a diaphanous cloud of sheer fabrics that hinted broadly at the body beneath.

"Would you gentlemen care to come inside and see Matilda up close?" The girl's accent was unfamiliar, almost as veiled as Kuryakin's. He tried to place it and came up with nothing. Napoleon took in her features, fine and decidedly Nordic, he though. Pale complexion and long blonde hair that seemed to defy gravity as it floated around her when she turned. He had a sense of being bewitched by this person.

"Thank you, Matilda is quite fetching for a skeleton." Illya had to reply and wondered at his partner's inability to speak. The woman was twice his age and not particularly pretty, so it couldn't be an attraction that rendered the American mute.

"Please, step inside and I will let you take a closer look." She motioned for them to come inside her shop. Beautiful to one and ordinary and matronly to the other, she knew the task ahead required eliminating the Russian.

As the two men stepped inside they were immediately affronted by the pungent incense she had burning in several corners. Clothes hung from hangers made of twigs, all manner of what might be described as hippy attired. It was inconceivable to Illya that this woman should hold such a spell over his partner and yet Napoleon continued to be quiet, his gaze one of infatuation as he looked longingly at the woman who finally introduced herself as Nedra.

"Are you familiar with the jeweled skeletons of Catholicism?' Illya nodded, he had read of the discoveries of those artifacts, skeletal remains that had been attributed as worthy of such ornamentation and then set on display. It repulsed him, but he continued to listen.

"This is not one of them, of course, but rather the remains of Matilda of Rostendam, whose husband murdered her before setting fire to their castle and taking his own life."

Something flashed as she finished speaking, animating Napoleon once more as he shook his head as though to clear it of the mist he had encountered.

"What…? I'm sorry, you said that this is a real skeleton?" He looked again at the woman and realized his first impression of her had been wrong. She wasn't young, nor was she even a pretty woman. He had to concentrate on the situation because he could feel an oppressive force trying to pull him back into the place from which he had just emerged.

Nedra felt the power shift, knew that the dark haired man was no longer under her spell. The blond seemed out of reach as well, something about him a familiar force that she dared not try to breach. Every moment she spent with him drained her power to appear as she had once seen herself.

"Are you aware that one woman has died after looking into your window display at this skeleton? Another woman turned on a group of people and threatened violence.' Illya's skin was tingling, a sixth sense of some sort rising up from within as he looked again at this woman. Napoleon cajoled him about the gypsies and their superstitions, but Illya knew things, felt things that could not be explained.

"You must leave now, you are… ooooohhh…" Much like a movie screen exposed to light, Nedra began to fade, her image hobbling between a young woman and the older woman Illya had identified. Within seconds something like a vacuum seemed to consume her as the tendrils of her gossamer clothing were swept into the void within the bones and jewels of the window skeleton.

Napoleon stood with his mouth gaping open, wordless once again. Illya's composure belied the turmoil he felt, the unfamiliar twinge of fear that battled for place with the teachings of the gypsies he had once known.

"What was that?" Napoleon's voice was timid sounding, lost in the amazement.

"I am not certain my friend, but I do think we should call someone… a church, perhaps. I very much doubt that UNCLE is equipped to deal with this."

Napoleon agreed, Mr. Waverly agreed… He knew who to call and within the hour a mysterious group dressed in black and as mute as Napoleon had been arrived to gather up the skeletal remains. They had equipment and boxes, too many items to number, and would dismantle the little shop and all that it contained.

Illya avoided discussing the encounter, but his dreams would provide explanations he dared not reveal.


	3. Chapter 3: Jamais Vu

Illya Kuryakin was tied up … again. He struggled against the ropes as he wriggled his body, trying to loosen the bonds or break the chair, whichever came first. Frustration welled up inside the Russian, all attempts to free himself seemingly futile. Before being knocked unconscious and, by all appearances tied to this wretched chair, Illya had passed by a room. It was dark within but something about it had drawn him, enticing him to open the door. And that was when the lights went out, figuratively speaking. He wanted to go back and look at that room but first he would need to be free of this inconvenience.

The place was eerily quiet, with no guards or even evidence of it having been occupied. Perhaps he had hit hit head on something and… Wait, that couldn't be right. He was tied up, someone had to have done that to him. Why was he drawn to the room? What about it seemed familiar?

Napoleon Solo waited to hear from his partner, time slowly reminding him of why he hated being the one left behind as another faced the enemy within. In this case it was a deranged doctor whose career had been sidelined by a series of lawsuits that had bankrupted the man with their allegations of drunkenness in the operating rooms of a prestigious New England hospital. In spite of that, THRUSH had engineered a plan whereby they could somehow utilize groundbreaking techniques employed by this surgeon; a heart surgeon whose zeal for advancements had cost him his license. He was young, and brilliant. Perhaps he might have recovered if not for being enticed by THRUSH and their promise to help him in his pursuits of medical breakthroughs.

"Why a heart surgeon?" Napoleon mused aloud to himself as he waited for his partner to emerge from the old, abandoned hospital building on an island in the Caribbean.

Illya felt the rope snap, a final jerk and his hands were free. He quickly untied his ankles and shed the ropes, standing too quickly before plummeting back onto the chair as his head spun wildly. Concussion most likely. Not to worry, he had dealt with those on more than one occasion, he needed to get back to that room; the call was like a beacon urging him onward.

The building was empty, he was certain of it. The question of why anyone had bothered to leave him tied up would be answered later, for now his intention was to examine the room that had piqued his interest. As he rounded the corner and came upon the door to that room his heartbeat quickened, a flush of anxiety sweeping over him as a series of images thrust him forward, stumbling until he landed on his knees at the base of an old hospital bed.

Napoleon had waited long enough, he was going in. Illya could be in danger in spite of the empty appearance of the building. With a surge of adrenaline that came from a place within the agent, he leapt up and over the brick wall that bordered the property. Stealthily approaching the old hospital, Solo had his Special in hand as he opened the front door to a disheveled, neglected space that must have served as a reception area. A few chairs remained, and he noted a climbing wisteria plant coming in through a broken window. He called out his partner's name, but received nothing in return.

Illya reached up, grabbing the edge of the bed and then recoiling from a jolt that sent him reeling backwards. Images and sounds burst through the present reality as he spiraled into a whirling vortex, time rushing forward… or was it backwards? Where was he, and why was his chest being crushed?

Napoleon continued towards a corridor that he hoped would lead to his partner. The walls had become canvas for some errant artists, childlike drawings and words scribbled atop the grime of too many years. There was no interior lighting, prompting Napoleon to pull out the small flashlight he had wisely placed in his jacket pocket. The place was spooky. Where was Illya?

Writhing in pain as his breath came in short gasps, Illya tried to cry out but nothing escaped his lips save the groaning of a man plunged into the despair of a heart attack. It was inconceivable but what else could produce this agony? Images of another man cut into his vision, familiar and yet… Suddenly the lights were on in this room, the walls pristine and the voices of a cadre of medical personnel speaking in unison, shouting out orders and compliances.

"Where am I, what has happened to me?" He hated that his voice was weak, and his body not his own.

"You have had a heart attack Mr. Kuryakin. You're in good hands, just lie back and count…" The voice faded and Illya succumbed to the anesthesia. At nearly eighty years of age he was in good health, but a heart attack… How was this possible, where did the years go?

Walking towards the only light now visible, Napoleon thought he heard sounds like people talking, some type of classical music in the background. This building had been vacant for decades, so why was there activity…? Illya, he must be in there and it could be that this was McKanders' new laboratory. With as much speed as possible, quietly and intently, Napoleon edged towards the door to the operating room. He was ready to peek through the window when a flash of something struck the room and the lights went out completely. It through him backwards, up against the wall, and with enough force to knock him out.

Illya came to with a breathless gasp. His chest still hurt and the sounds of the operating room resounded in his head. He put his hand to his face, somehow expecting to feel skin beneath his fingers that belied his true age; it had all seemed so real. He heard the door open and, with great relief, realized it was Napoleon. He mustered all of the strength he had to try and stand, but it was his friend grabbing hold and lifting him up that finally brought Illya face to face with his partner.

"You okay? What's been going on in here? I thought I saw a light, heard voices…" The look on Illya's face told him he wasn't completely wrong, but something else was there as well.

"I cannot say for certain exactly what happened, only that … What is the opposite of deja vu?" He couldn't think, it seemed at present he could only feel.

"Jamais vu? Illya?" For the second time Illya clutched at his chest and collapsed to the floor. Napoleon wasted no time breaking the silence imposed for this mission, calling for help and hoping it wouldn't be too late for his stricken partner.

Illya Kuryakin opened his eyes and for the second time in his life (or was it the first), he looked into the eyes of Kendall McKanders and heard words spoken to him nearly fifty years earlier.

"You have had a heart attack Mr. Kuryakin. You're in good hands, just lie back and count…" The voice faded and Illya succumbed to the anesthesia. At nearly eighty years of age he was in good health, but a heart attack… How was this possible, where did the years go?


End file.
